including a tech area where a number of analysts and intelligence officers were already working away at computers. He kept moving down the corridor, and eventually arrived at his own office, pushing open the door and moving inside.
Walking to his desk, he placed his briefcase to one side and grabbed the remote to a television mounted on the wall across the room. He pushed the power button and flicked it on.
He always liked to catch a brief summary of the headlines when he walked in, updating him on the most important and pressing situations taking place around the world. Although the television had a range of channels, including CNN and the Fox Newsroom, the American liked to keep it on BBC World. Out of the three choices, that was the one he preferred. The reports were unbiased and gave him a cliff-notes version of everything he needed to know at the start of the day. CNN and Fox were fantastic broadcasters, but even their own network heads would probably admit that most of their focus was geared towards events in the United States. Considering Jackson’s job, he needed to know straight away of any crises in Europe, and BBC World could be relied upon to summarise the most important events. Many times in the past, his assistant had walked into the office handing over a first-hand detailed report from an agent who had been directly involved in something that was just coming up on the screen.
As he took a seat behind his desk, his assistant knocked on the door and entered. He’d left it open knowing she would.
She was a few years older than he was, a woman called Lynn, who was also from Virginia, not far from his hometown, Staunton. She’d been his assistant for almost three years, and they had a good working relationship, sharing a pleasant degree of mutual respect. She didn't take shit from anyone, no matter what their rank or position, an attitude that had definitely not helped her career. However, she and her boss had developed a good rapport. He always made a point to treat her with respect and courtesy and he knew that she appreciated it and subsequently did the same for him.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.
‘Morning, Lynn. How are you?’
'Very well, sir. Yourself?'
'Good, thanks .'
He watched the screen as a report came up, a black headline on a yellow banner, rolling onto the screen. Breaking News: Political candidate Charlie Adams commits suicide on South Bank early this morning . The CIA agent read the headline and a light-bulb faintly flickered at the back of his mind, like one turned on in a dusty cellar or basement in a house that had been abandoned for years, given a spark of electricity but struggling for full power.
Charlie Adams.
That name rang a bell.
It was familiar yet distant, tantalisingly out of reach.
Where had he heard it before?
‘Charlie Adams,’ he said to himself, out loud, watching the screen. He looked over at his assistant. ‘You heard that name before, Lynn?’
‘Only on the occasional news report, sir,' she said. 'Apparently he was a pretty big deal in British politics. People were comparing him to President Obama. Real up-and-comer.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Put a revolver in his mouth and ate a bullet.’
The man behind the desk frowned, thinking.
‘OK. Anything for me this morning?’
‘Nothing pressing, sir. But don't forget, you have a twelve o'clock with the Syrian ambassador. It's at a private conference room across town. I've arranged transport so you won't have to drive.’
‘That's right. OK. Thanks, Lynn.’
She nodded to her boss and left, shutting the door behind her.
After she was gone and he was alone, the CIA agent continued to watch the screen, wracking his brains for any further recollection of that name. Charlie Adams , he thought, repeating the name to himself over and over in his head, trying to stir up some recollection. It felt significant somehow, like he should have remembered who the guy was.
Charlie Adams .
Where do I know you
Walking to his desk, he placed his briefcase to one side and grabbed the remote to a television mounted on the wall across the room. He pushed the power button and flicked it on.
He always liked to catch a brief summary of the headlines when he walked in, updating him on the most important and pressing situations taking place around the world. Although the television had a range of channels, including CNN and the Fox Newsroom, the American liked to keep it on BBC World. Out of the three choices, that was the one he preferred. The reports were unbiased and gave him a cliff-notes version of everything he needed to know at the start of the day. CNN and Fox were fantastic broadcasters, but even their own network heads would probably admit that most of their focus was geared towards events in the United States. Considering Jackson’s job, he needed to know straight away of any crises in Europe, and BBC World could be relied upon to summarise the most important events. Many times in the past, his assistant had walked into the office handing over a first-hand detailed report from an agent who had been directly involved in something that was just coming up on the screen.
As he took a seat behind his desk, his assistant knocked on the door and entered. He’d left it open knowing she would.
She was a few years older than he was, a woman called Lynn, who was also from Virginia, not far from his hometown, Staunton. She’d been his assistant for almost three years, and they had a good working relationship, sharing a pleasant degree of mutual respect. She didn't take shit from anyone, no matter what their rank or position, an attitude that had definitely not helped her career. However, she and her boss had developed a good rapport. He always made a point to treat her with respect and courtesy and he knew that she appreciated it and subsequently did the same for him.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.
‘Morning, Lynn. How are you?’
'Very well, sir. Yourself?'
'Good, thanks .'
He watched the screen as a report came up, a black headline on a yellow banner, rolling onto the screen. Breaking News: Political candidate Charlie Adams commits suicide on South Bank early this morning . The CIA agent read the headline and a light-bulb faintly flickered at the back of his mind, like one turned on in a dusty cellar or basement in a house that had been abandoned for years, given a spark of electricity but struggling for full power.
Charlie Adams.
That name rang a bell.
It was familiar yet distant, tantalisingly out of reach.
Where had he heard it before?
‘Charlie Adams,’ he said to himself, out loud, watching the screen. He looked over at his assistant. ‘You heard that name before, Lynn?’
‘Only on the occasional news report, sir,' she said. 'Apparently he was a pretty big deal in British politics. People were comparing him to President Obama. Real up-and-comer.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Put a revolver in his mouth and ate a bullet.’
The man behind the desk frowned, thinking.
‘OK. Anything for me this morning?’
‘Nothing pressing, sir. But don't forget, you have a twelve o'clock with the Syrian ambassador. It's at a private conference room across town. I've arranged transport so you won't have to drive.’
‘That's right. OK. Thanks, Lynn.’
She nodded to her boss and left, shutting the door behind her.
After she was gone and he was alone, the CIA agent continued to watch the screen, wracking his brains for any further recollection of that name. Charlie Adams , he thought, repeating the name to himself over and over in his head, trying to stir up some recollection. It felt significant somehow, like he should have remembered who the guy was.
Charlie Adams .
Where do I know you
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